


Eyes of a Dancer

by Rising_Phoenix



Category: Original Work
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Concentration Camps, Homophobic Language, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rescue, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 04:54:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21422512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rising_Phoenix/pseuds/Rising_Phoenix
Summary: Post war Germany, 1945.Red Cross doctor Dr. Eric Morris is among the troupes that rescue prisoners from concentration camps, and is reminded of the love he lost, when he meets two prisoners that lead him to an unexpected twist of fate.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	Eyes of a Dancer

_Germany, 1945_

It was a strange feeling to have set foot on German ground the first time after all these years. Seven years to be exact. He had remembered how the people then had tried to ignore the apparent danger, the already gloomy mood Berlin had been in then, hanging over the city like clouds at the brink of a thunderstorm. Yet the people had partied, tried to laugh the danger and the fear away a lot of them had been in. He one of them even though he had been only a visitor for a few weeks in Winter 1938.

Still, something had told him that there was a storm coming up. Something that could not have been closer to the truth. He had not planned to go to Germany then, had not planned to visit for weeks, and had not planned to fall in love and loose his heart.

He was none to believe in love at first sight, being a rational doctor who followed his knowledge and ratio rather than his heart and guts, but the young dancer he had seen in the opera that evening, he took his breath away, with eyes so brilliant green that he could see them sparkle into the 14th row where he had sat and seen him perform. He never thought he would see him again but that night he dreamed of him and when he met him the next day in a local bar, laughing with friends, being cheerful, bubbly and so full of life, Eric had lost more than just his heart to the artist. And Sebastian had felt the same, as he told him the same night when he was lying in his arms.

Seven years.

The jeep he was now sitting in, accompanied by allied soldiers, wearing himself the uniform of a field medic, passed through a small forest and already he felt his heart in a tight grip, suffocating and with a pressure he could not shrug off.

They had heard rumors of the camps, but nothing concrete, nothing that anyone was willing to give details about. They told him that every medic they could spare was needed there, so he volunteered. Of course he did. There were people who had survived the worst, and he had taken the profession of a doctor because he wanted to help. His family back home in New York was still in shock that he had volunteered to join the armed forces a few months back, not understanding why he took a sabbatical from his well-paid job in a private clinic to risk his own life helping others, yet they were proud of him and supported him, their worry though apparent.

They came to a stop in front of a fenced gate and a GI from another company talked to their driver, then stepping aside and letting them pass. The man was pale as a sheet and Eric clenched his jaw.

This was the same feeling he had the day he got notice that Sebastian was dead five years ago, shot on his way to the harbor, shot on his way to meet with him, to live with him, to be happy with him.

Shot.

Killed.

The report, that joke of a report his journalist friend arranged for him to have, said he resisted being arrested on the train, being marked as a sexual offender with a pink triangle. Sexual offender meaning nothing but that he was a homosexual. Sebastian was peaceful, at ease with himself and the world, and all he wanted was to leave that rotten country that had been so beautiful once and would be again in years to come. All he had wanted was to reach the harbor, board the ship and start his journey into a better, a free life at Eric’s side. He must have been in panic, scared to death to resist anything, to even attempt to say even a single word towards uniformed men of the SS.

He must have been so scared.

All Eric remembered often about him were his amazing, pale eyes that still haunted him every night.

Eric rubbed his eyes at the memory of the man he had loved more than anything before and since. Yes, he was living with someone else now, but love? No. He had spoken those words only once in his life and they were directed to the green eyed ballet dancer, the rising star at the opera who had danced even in front of Hitler and had been once proud of that. Before he understood, being so young and naïve, what danger that man and his followers meant to his own being.

“What is the situation?” He asked when he stepped out of the jeep, his comrades already being briefed shortly by the Captain who had been waiting for them.

“This is one of their so called concentration camps, doc. We have survivors and we try our best to get them treated. We got a provisional sick bay over there, that’s your place, and give out blankets and food over there, bread and soup. For now. Be prepared.” The always grumpy officer lowered his gaze. “It’s the worst we have seen yet. They tried to kill all survivors before they left, we got mass graves back there, hundreds of poor bastards for which we came hours too late.”

Eric’s mouth went dry and he nodded, anger and bile rising, and went to work without needing to be further briefed.

The captain had been right. It was the worst they had ever seen.

Not one of the prisoners, and his mind refused to call the victims that, was in good shape. They were malnourished, had untreated wounds, and all of them had dead eyes. None of them looked into his face when he talked to them in his strong American accent and his German knowledge that had sprung back to life the moment he needed it again. None of them reacted to soft spoken words. None of them seemed to be alive and he started to ask himself if those dead were not the truly lucky ones.

After hours of work on the wounded, treating bruises, broken bones, rashes and other things that he could do something for, he and Simon, the farmboy from Michigan who was so young he could almost have been his son, went to the field kitchen and helped with giving out bread and soup to the survivors. Everything reminded him of a graveyard. Nobody spoke, everyone was overly careful and seemed haunted and the mood was depressed. He was sure it was nothing he could ever forget. 

“Kann ich bitte noch ein zweites Stück Brot haben und etwas mehr von der Suppe?“ _Can I have a second piece of bread and a bit more soup? _

Eric looked up to the first person who had opened his mouth unasked and looked at another of the survivors, a huge man with a long face and haunted grey eyes. Like everyone else’s his head was shorn of all hair and his skin was grey. Still, he had a certain sparkle in his eyes, he was alive and happy to be so. Next to him stood a much smaller man, no, a boy, reaching just his shoulder, with warm brown eyes that too were not as dead as those of so many others. The boy chewed on his lip and seemed concerned, scared of the reaction of the stranger.

“Natürlich.” _Of course._

Eric put another spoonful of soup into the bowl and handed him a second piece of bread. The stranger looked surprised and then he nodded and a smile ghosted over his face.

“Danke sehr.” _Thank you very much._

And then he and the boy left the tent and went out of Eric’s sight.

“Ich hab doch gesagt der sieht freundlich aus.” _I said he looked friendly._ The tall man with the green triangle on his striped uniform said when they left.

“Und wenn uns einer nachgeht? Die werden sich nen Dreck um einen wie mich scheren.“ _And if someone follows? They will give a shit on someone like me._ The boy said, shaking his head and following him with a slight limp.

Someone like me.

Eric narrowed his eyes.

The boy wore a pink triangle on his uniform. Sexual offender. Gay.

“Excuse me a moment,” he said to Simon and followed the two men, saw how they went to one of the barracks, a small one, not much more than a shed.

It had started to rain as if the sky was shedding tears for those who did not make it. Pulling up his uniform collar, Eric followed them, hesitating at the door when he reached it.

“Bitte, du musst was essen. Komm schon. Gib nicht auf. Nicht jetzt.“ _Please you have to eat. Come one. Don’t give up. Not now._

Another voice said something but so silent that Eric could not hear the words.

“Kann ich helfen?”_ Can I help?_ ,he said when he stepped in.

The boy jumped and stared wide-eyed at him, moving back to the wall as if he expected to be attacked by him. The tall man, on his knees on the floor, looked up, but not scared. Worried. Sad. And he had tears in his eyes.

“Ich glaube sie sind zu spat. Er hat keine Kraft mehr.” _I think you’re too late. He has no more strength._

Eric moved closer.

“Sie sind Arzt?” _You’re a doctor?_ ,the boy asked with fear in his voice, even more fear than before. As if a doctor would be something bad here.

He nodded.

“Mit dem Roten Kreuz.” _With the Red Cross._

He looked down at a body, curled up on a mat on the floor, covered in two of the army blankets he had himself given out. It must have been the blankets of these two men who tried themselves to take care of another one. One that was too weak to get a blanket or food himself.

“Was ist mit ihm?” _What is with him?_

The tall one shrugged, touching gently with his huge hands the shoulder of the trembling man under the blanket, his small frame giving already away the bad state he was in. When Eric went down on his knees too, he raised a bit, as if threatening him, protecting his friend by making himself seem larger.

“Ich will nur helfen.” _I only want to help._

Gently he touched the back of the other, feeling spine and ribs even through the blanket and he felt the trembling stop, as if only his touch calmed him.

“Die haben ihn ausgehungert, die anderen. Haben ihn geschlagen und getreten als ob die Nazis nicht schlimm genug gewesen wären.“ _They have starved him out, the others. Beat and kicked him, as if the Nazis had not been bad enough._

“Die anderen?” _The others?_ Eric looked up at the boy who had spoken. He had crossed his arms and looked angry. He could not say how old he was, in the bad state he was in himself. Maybe 18, not much older. But his eyes, even though not dead, showed the terror he had witnessed.

“Er meint die anderen hier im Bau.“ _He means the others here in the brig._

“Andere Häftlinge? Aber…warum?” _Other prisoners? __But...why?_

The tall man pulled down the blanket, and showed him another pink triangle on the fourth man’s striped prison uniform.

“Wir sind Freiwild.” _We’re fair game._ The man said, making Eric look at him in wonder, and looking at his own green triangle he grinned. “War einfacher nur als Dieb hier zu sein und nicht als Schwuchtel.“ _Was easier to be here as a thief and not as a fag._

Eric nodded and thought him a clever man. That way he had been able to survive much better than this poor bastard.

“Er hat die Schläge für mich mit kassiert. Hat nicht zugelassen dass die mich schlagen.“ _He took my beatings too. Has not allowed them to beat me up. _The boy sniffed and the man stood up and went over to him, taking him into his arms and the boy almost vanished in the tight grip of this giant of a man.

“Alles wird gut, Alexander.” _It’s going to be good, Alexander._ ,he whispered, stroking his head. Eric had to smile at the sight of these two. He was not sure they were a couple or even that close, but their care for each other and their friend, the bond between them was something he could feel almost physically.

He went back to the man on the floor, who started to tremble again. His whole body was cramping and his held his head hidden in his own arms.

“Ich muss sie umdrehen um zu sehen wo sie verletzt sind.” _I have to turn you over to see your injuries._

Eric heard the two other men gasp when he took the shoulders of his patient carefully and turned him, making him moan in pain.

“Es tut mir so leid.” _I’m so sorry._

He looked at the man, so malnourished that the skin was sticking almost to nothing but bone. His face looked like a skull and his lips were dry and chapped, the skin grey. The swelling next to his eye socket, spreading over the cheekbone let him guess that the bone was broken. Maybe more bones in his head were. He looked not even alive and Eric thought for a moment the unbearable thought that it may was best to just redeem him from his suffering. But this was a human being, not an animal that needed to be put down. Maybe there were people who loved this man, who missed him, who did not even know he was alive and that he could return home to.

“Reagiert er auf irgendetwas?” _Does he react to anything?_

He looked up to Alexander and his friend. Who both shook their heads.

“Nicht seit ein paar Stunden. Ist schlimmer geworden seit gestern. Der Kommandant hat ihn nochmal vorführen lassen bevor sie abgehauen sind.” _Not for some hours. __It got worse since yesterday. The commander had him summoned a last time before they left._

Eric sighed. That was not looking good. If they had only been here a day earlier. Another poor soul they came too late for.

“Es tut mir so leid.“ _I’m so sorry. _, he said and on the spur of the moment, he cupped the wounded cheek of the man in his hand, stroking the skin with his thumb, wiping away a tear.

A tear?

That meant a reaction.

“Können sie mich verstehen?” _Can you hear me?_ , he said much louder than before, feeling a certain desperation rising in him, the need of the doctor to save his patient.

The other two came closer, worried and anxious.

And then the man on the floor opened his eyes, moaning again in pain and agony, and looked right into Eric’s blue and worried eyes.

Brilliant green eyes.

The eyes of a dancer he once knew.


End file.
